Gasoline
by Novoux
Summary: Ran hates the spark in his little brother Aoba's eyes. Enough to extinguish it with his own fire. Trigger warning.


Sometimes he questions what comes next. First the angry stare, glaring like a deaf-dumb dog with the floppy and spiky hair of a burned brunette and darker than ashes of tobacco at night. In the daytime it's the same color as raw tobacco—drenched in the smell with gasoline wafting in the air dangerously nearby. One little spark, be it in his eyes whenever Ran looks or there's a smell of a fire burning and the whole place goes up in flames by the time Ran manages to get his grubby cigarette-yellow fingers around Aoba's throat and squeeze tightly. Aoba doesn't let him hear the sound of gagging or the gargle of salty saliva mixing with blood because veins are bursting from the pressure of fire hoses cut off by the same fingers that dig into the back of his neck and snap little tiny pathways to Aoba's head and by then his face is purple. When his fingers are gone and Aoba's flying against the drywall with a sudden explosion of collision and barely a dent in the wall from how tiny he is there are sure to be scars and marks in the wall. His face is red and his throat gasps for air but he never says a word while Ran advances on him, angrily stomping over and stomping that red into Aoba's face with each thundering shudder of an echo that pulses from the croaks of bones ready to split under pressure.

One person out of every one hundred is a psychopath. He looks it up somewhere on the Internet when Ran isn't chatting with friends or trying to convince underage girls to sext with him. Numerous sources, most often in English which he has a better time reading when he doesn't have a migraine again, confirm that this is true and interestingly enough twenty-five percent of the world's psychopaths are in prison while one percent of the population are psychopaths. Small world, it seems, when at first he's nine and has to look up some larger words in educational context and decides childishly in a moment that he comes soon to regret when he turns around in the computer chair is that Ran is a psychopath. It's the only definition that comes and the moment he logs off the computer, somewhat relieved and more than a little aching in his chest he comes face to face with his brother who knows what he's been doing.

Ran is furious, again. But Aoba isn't nine anymore and this is the same daily routine. "You fucking piece of shit, freak, don't fucking dare." Ran's shoes stop at Aoba's parted legs and too close to his groin for comfort when repeats start to flash behind his eyes. Brown hair flops in his eyes just like his brother's but Ran is much angrier and his hair smells like sulfuric acid and cigarettes while Aoba's is burnt. "You're alive just to waste my time, aren't you? Get in the fucking way, tattle on me to all your little friends who're freaks just like you!?" Ran bends, grasping a handful of brown hair and glaring angrily with as much fury as a raging bull into Aoba's eyes. They're dead, mainly, save for the glint of flint and steel in them that makes him furious—the kid has the audacity to stare at him and _look _at him without even an ounce of hatred. Just examine him like he's the freak and Aoba doesn't have any reason or want to make a sound when Ran tightens his grip and starts to pull too hard to not pull blood from loosening strands. And Ran hates it—hates Aoba for being the little freak he is with the stare of a freak and an ugly, out-of-place toy he's broken again and again with not a sound.

It isn't the first time when Aoba is nine that Ran starts shouting. Mom and Dad aren't home so it's alright for Ran's voice to shake the walls while he grabs Aoba's arm and bashes his head into the wall next to the computer. Angrily demand what he thinks he's doing on _his _computer and he doesn't remember giving Aoba any permission to use it. Demands an answer but Aoba and that creepy empty stare only rile him up further and—if Aoba would just do something in reaction like screaming or crying like a bullied kid is supposed to maybe—he can stop. But the little shit just stares and bites his lip and his eyes are hollow and Ran hates how it only encourages him further. It's all Aoba's fault, he tells himself, when he snaps Aoba's arm for the tenth time and then dislocates the other when he hangs Aoba off a coat hanger with his arms twisted behind his back and his shoulders popping in complaint. Since he likes the kicking that Aoba does—_something _to keep the freak somewhat human—he leaves his legs alone. Kicks Aoba's groin and the flash of pain is tempting to do more when his lips bleed from tears from his teeth.

Ran kicks him and the gasp when his shoe collides with the clothed flesh of Aoba's groin is worth how disgusting this is. Aoba slams into the wall again and Ran is angry when it's not enough to calm the fire raging in his veins provoked by Aoba's empty stare. Those eyes spark and he hates it with his hands around Aoba's throat and the fucking freak doesn't even try to stop him. Aoba thinks now while he hides a grunt and pain sparks through his genitals that when he was nine he had the information wrong. Staring into his brother's eyes when he finds himself lifting off the ground he knows that the muted anger that isn't raging like his brother's is reflecting in his eyes but Ran never bothers to look. Only see right through him and then the skin at the nape of his neck splits from broken fingernails and Ran's shouting now. "Come on, freak! Say something! Say it hurts when I twist your arm!" Though the definition of twisting is different for both because in the next moment it takes a groan of Aoba's arm, Ran's eyes glaring into his and waiting for a reaction as Aoba bites through his bottom lip while he pulls and twists. Until the telltale pop of Aoba's arm dislocating and the numbing sparks of pain shoot down his arm and echo throughout him.

The first time Ran sets Aoba on fire he pours gasoline all over him retrieved from an unlabeled can that only he knows and as a finishing touch, he lights a cigarette after he forces Aoba to drown in gasoline. One breath, exhaling with a puff of smoke blowing in Aoba's face to make his nose wrinkle with eyes watering just until he lowers the cigarette and the stains of his fingers become apparent to Aoba with eyes widening only by a fraction when he knows he can't let Ran win. Every noise he makes—stifled gasp or flash of pain and a quiet groan of complaint—he loses this game between them. Nine years old and he knows from the past years that the same keeps happening no matter what he does. If he cries, Mom doesn't hear and Dad doesn't particularly care. They're both gone anyway and by next year Dad will leave for a younger woman and Mom will completely ignore him. Not that he knows that now, per say, but there's a feeling like the glimmer of insanity in Ran's eyes when Aoba starts to struggle and gasp open-mouthed over the reek of gasoline burning his eyes out of his sockets. He stares, waiting as that lit cigarette filters between his eyes and—

"Fucking freak!" Ran slams Aoba's head into the wall again, both hearing the cracks of a fracturing head and the utter strength that needs to apply that much pressure is immense. The same follows when Ran punches Aoba in the chest and watches as he drops to the floor, gasping and wheezing like many times before. He chokes and coughs and his vision blurs. "You're enjoying this, aren't you? You're disgusting!" Ran shouts and his shoe collides with Aoba's chest, knocking him back into the wall with several more cracks and a fresh dent in the white wall. Aoba tries to lift his head, feeling the fingers thread through the strands and the chemical smell of cigarettes invades his nose again. Ran steps on his leg beneath the knee and stomps a couple times for good measure and Aoba hears the screams from his throat echoing in his head. Ran never hears them—desperate, crying, and pain shooting through him in heated knives slicing through butter.

When Ran touches the tip of a lit cigarette to nine-year-old Aoba's hair, he watches the strands go up in flames. Just as Aoba thinks he's ready to scream as he writhes on the coat hanger with arms that don't work and feet that don't reach far enough the flames go out and Ran drags him off the coat hanger. Soon enough he finds himelf in the garage, sprayed down by a hose in order to not set off the fire alarms inside the house. It's the middle of winter and Ran keeps spraying his face, kicking Aoba to make sure his eyes are open and for extra measure the hose shoves itself inside of Aoba's mouth and with the threat of breaking his teeth out. Ran thinks it's funny though—watching Aoba contort and those eyes are wide and burning with hatred when the hose is finally removed and he vomits until his throat bleeds and then some more when Ran kicks him once or twice. His eyes sting with anger and tears like a nine-year-old but he's not upset and his hair smells burnt while his skin is ice and stabbing pain. He can't move his arms and moving hurts too much so he lies still while Ran kicks him again and again while screaming profanities that ring in Aoba's ears. They still echo years later but for now he doesn't know that when he focuses on how cold it is in the garage and it takes an hour after Ran leaves for their father to come home and take him to have his arms fixed.

Aoba says he was climbing and got stuck to the pretty nurses who ask all sorts of questions while his father looks away. He knows that his father is embarrassed to have stupid sons. So he doesn't make a fuss, charming the doctors until they agree to let him go early when it's the least he can do for when his father ignores him again. Maybe a flash of concern for when Aoba runs out of painkillers, but it fades when Aoba reassures him that he's fine. Ran sold them all, anyway.

"Say something, freak!" Ran demands again with a huff and Aoba is dragging in his fingers by the hair, a favorite of Ran's to grab onto. Aoba continues to stare up at him, wheels turning quietly in his head as he knows this isn't going to end. Not yet. Another kick and this time Ran stomps on his knee to crunch the bones beneath his shoe. Aoba jolts upward, screaming in his mouth while his throat is still empty from the crushing fingers from before. Ran doesn't need to know that he hasn't been able to speak in months and he doesn't have the money or patience to go to the hospital. At this point it's obvious he's going to lose his voice if he doesn't do anything for himself, but he likes watching his brother get angry. Enjoys—_how disgusting—_the fire in his brother's eyes for him and him only as Aoba watches him get angrier and angrier.

When he was a kid he wasn't able to control the screaming past a certain point but over the years he gets better and starts to realize that he isn't always right. But that's fine, as long as he can continue to stare at Ran with each hit and feel the bitter copper in his mouth or in the air from blood spilling from wherever on his body. Skipping school isn't so bad when he doesn't need the concern if it doesn't exist. No trouble, no worry, just stay home until he gets better. At least he's smart enough to make up his work and charm stupid teachers.

Ran's eyes are full of material things when they reach the garage and down the steps. Aoba knows this because his own eyes are empty save for the spark that's still there, despite all the odds against him piling up and threatening to bring him down. He lets them do as they please, whispers and stares if they care to bother and when he limps it's harder to ignore. Tell them he likes to play rough and he gets a little unsafe at times and then they manage to push away. No one wants to deal with it—he knows his mother has an empty look in her eyes too and she never sees him. Right through him, yes, but that's another sort of loneliness for a child to bear. He's not a kid—he's in middle school. Ran drops out of high school, but he doesn't care. Then he starts to realize that he hates everyone as much as he hates his brother. Big things for a little kid.

"Come on, freak!" Aoba lands in the garage, scrambling to get away and breaths hitching with painful squeaks when it's starting to become to much. His arm is turning purple and his leg throbs brokenly in desperate cries. Little pranks to get Ran back after each beating are starting to fall short when they're not enough to set in like the breaks in his bones and the screams that come through his pillow. Those are out of anger and frustration and never sadness when he doesn't feel the heavy weight. No guilt, no remorse, no nothing. And then he sees the maniacal glint and wonders if Ran's planning something by the time he reaches for an unlabeled plastic container. He knows what this means—starting to struggle and gasp just as the pain becomes unbearable—and hears Ran's laughter bouncing in his ears like one of those nightmares replaying again.

"Come on!" Ran repeats, grinning with teeth glinting in the shallow light of the light bulb above and the door closed to the outside. It's springtime and somewhat chilly, but Aoba never notices when his heart is beating too fast and his body is on fire. Too bad it's starting to become more of a reality than a feeling—heart pounding against his ribs fingers aching and throat torn in screaming out of desperation for wanting to live. Prime examples of human survival and he's supposed to know this in staying too late at the libraries, screaming and biting into the teeth marks on his hands when the nightmares of daydreams take over and the threats are more than promises. And in all this time Ran clicks off the twist lid and a garbled laugh shudders in his throat. He's waiting—if Aoba reacts, it might make him guilty enough to stop. But the stupid kid-freak just keeps staring, wide-eyed and almost scared except for the amused glimmer in his eyes. Kid's a psychopath, he tells himself, feeling the rage climb higher in his veins.

"No? You're just enjoying this, sick freak." Ran kicks Aoba onto his back, shoving him down with one foot and tips the bottle over. Clear liquid starts to drizzle and Aoba starts to squirm, eyes growing wider when the warm fluid soaks through his clothes. He smells gasoline in the air, hanging on every open-mouthed breath rewarded with mocking laughter and then—"Open up, freak." Ran shoves his heel into Aoba's cracking rib cage and the latter must not hear him for he repeats, digging deeper and Aoba starts to cough blood. Ran watches, almost curiously, as blood splatters on the floor and Aoba is heaving and shivering beneath him. It's almost cruel, but he knows that this monster is not his brother nor human. So it doesn't matter whether or not he pours gasoline into Aoba's mouth and makes him swallow until he's satisfied before he starts to douse Aoba.

His brother is a freak. Enjoying this shit—Ran almost wants to puke at how disgusting it is to watch his brother swallow gasoline and stare up at him while his hair is soaking in the stench and the colorless liquid. The rest of him is sufficiently covered in the flammable liquid and Ran feels the weight of the lighter in his pocket next to the pack of cigarettes. It's just too perfect, grinning as he watches Aoba's struggles while he chokes on vomit and gasoline underneath his foot. Considering himself Ran's doing a favor for everyone else. Getting rid of the little monster and having a bit of fun while he eliminates that provoking spark he hates so much for egging him on.

Aoba knows what he's going to do after he manages to wriggle away. He's going to use the same torture, his own vomit and gasoline as to not waste in the policy of his brother with his own. Smear his brother's walls with the sickening smell that clogs his pores and makes his head go numb and airy while he stifles the whimpers. Make Ran pay for the stitches in the value of setting his room on fire and blame it on his smoking habit. Odds are Mom will believe it and give him a scolding. But it's all worth it, when Ran is beyond the hope of ever having Aoba share a shred of _anything _toward him. Except amusement at winning this game, because when his brother lights the fluid, Aoba knows he wins. Ran would know the same too, from the way he snarls low in his throat. "This means I win, freak! You can't dare to win against me, not like the monster you are." Ran presses a little harder and somehow through the gargles and choking, Aoba manages a hoarse laugh even though he's aching enough to start screaming.

"Shut up! Shut up, freak!" Ran flicks the lighter out of his pocket, pulling a cigarette with and Aoba laughs as he struggles with his broken arm to move. Underneath Ran's foot is impossible and this may be the only way to escape so he keeps laughing. His stare doesn't move under the hoarse rumble of his laughter—knowing he's won the game and realizing now that when he was nine he had it all wrong.

"Shut up!" Ran demands again, desperately this time as he brings the cigarette to stained lips and a flame licks up from his lighter. One touch—a kiss of death to the rolled tobacco and the lighter goes back into his pocket in a mocking gesture of tenderness. This is how Ran displays his own emotions, as stunted as they are. And Aoba watches, afraid (unwilling to admit) and curious to see if he has finally broken Ran in his own game. "Shut up! I don't want to see your ugly fucking face again! You hear me!?" Grabbing the nearly empty canister of gasoline, Ran pours it over Aoba's eyes, enjoying the stinging burn that makes Aoba's eyes water and against himself the boy lets out a whine of fear. Ran only translates it as a movement to keep going.

A trail lines from the gasoline down to the last drips before he throws away the canister. Ran is laughing when he takes a drag and Aoba can smell the gasoline in his hair like sweet and bitter mix of blood and burning hair. The bitter tang is the sensation scrubbing his eyes and making sight painful through the blurry haze while he keeps his eyes on Ran, daring him even though he knows what will come next.

Not like he can stop it—so he doesn't try. Ran is incorrigible with the filthy habits of his. Aoba and his pranks are a relationship similar to that.

So this time Aoba wonders what he's going to do fully to get revenge for this. For the ache and the burn and the sting and wondering when the last straw was ripped to pieces. He knows only that he's going to make Ran pay the same way his body aches, no matter the consequences. But in a slow game, like chess, and use Ran to the fullest. Right now he's a perfect example of untrained as he pulls the cigarette away and smoke filters from his nose and mouth.

Laughing. And then the cigarette drops in a moment of precarious wishful thinking when Aoba actually thinks someone might save him.

He's wrong, though. No one will ever care. Or notice that Aoba has won the game and no matter the cost it's entirely worth watching his brother fall apart above him with a foot soaking in gasoline and never realizing the extent of his own stupidity. Ran isn't the psychopath—it's Aoba. It has been, all along with the lack of caring what happens to others. Hating everyone else and never showing sorrow or regret when Ran tortures him.

The flames climb higher with the pitch of Ran's laughter.

* * *

><p><em>Look, a non-Shizaya story for once. That's rare.<em>

_Notice a spelling mistake? Please let me know._

_Thank you for reading._


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